The Marshmallow Queen sat alone in her room sipping tea from an empty cup and listening to the bumps and crashes from the darkened room next door.
“The poor dear is angry again,” the Queen said, and she smiled, sadly.
She knew he was dwelling on some remembered slight, two centuries or more in the past, and that he’d howl and smash about the room for an hour or so, until his anger was spent. And then he’d feel sorry, and after she was long asleep he’d glide through the wall into her room.
And in the morning, the Marshmallow Queen would wake with the memory of a dream of cold, sweet lips touching her cheek.
—Richard F. Yates
[P.S. – Elvisa Crinkler says, “Why would a dear kiss a marshmallow?”]
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[Originally posted 25 Mar. 2013 @ The Primitive Entertainment Workshop]
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